The pastor increasingly wild

The third time I went up, the sky was black as a wolf's mouth, even though it was only four in the afternoon. It had rained all morning, and the path had turned into a slippery mud pit. My boots sank up to my ankles, mud splattered my calves, and I already had a half-hard cock just thinking about what awaited me above. I carried three packs of Ducados this time - one regular, two strong ones -, a small bottle of cheap cognac that I had bought at the village bar, and, just in case, a jar of Vaseline that I put in my backpack almost out of superstition. I knew he wasn't going to use it, but the gesture made me feel less exposed.

I arrived panting, with sweat mixing with the fine rain that was still falling. The stone shelter seemed smaller under the gloom, as if the mountain was swallowing it. I didn't see him at first. Then I heard a noise: the click of a lighter, the snap of a dry twig. He was inside, sitting on the old cot, with his legs open and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The lighter's flame illuminated his face from below: the acne scars, the uneven beard, the small eyes that shone like embers. He was only wearing work pants, no shirt. His hairy chest rose and fell slowly. He had a dark stain on his crotch; either he had been touching himself or he was already excited.

He didn't say hello. He just stared at me fixedly as I entered, dripping wet.

"Take off all that wet stuff before you get the floor wet," he growled.

I quickly undressed, shivering more from cold than nerves. My clothes fell in a soaked heap next to the door. I was left naked, my hard cock pointing at the ceiling, raindrops sliding down my torso. He got up slowly, approached me, and sniffed my neck like a dog. He inhaled deeply, exhaled hot air against my skin.

"You smell like the city and fear," he said. "Good. I like it."

He pushed me backward until my back hit the damp wall. The granite was cold as ice. He grabbed my wrists with one hand and lifted them above my head, pinning them against the stone. With his other hand, he opened my mouth and inserted three fingers inside, up to the uvula. He moved them as if stirring something thick. Saliva ran down my chin.

"Suck," he ordered.

I sucked. His fingers tasted like stale tobacco, earth, sheep, and something more acidic that I couldn't identify. He fucked my mouth with his fingers while his other hand went down to pinch my nipple hard. He twisted until it hurt for real. I moaned around his fingers. He smiled crookedly, showing those uneven teeth.

He pulled out his fingers with a wet sound and used them to draw a line of saliva from my mouth to my chest, down to my navel, and to the base of my cock. Then he turned me around abruptly, put me face to the wall, and opened my legs with a soft kick in the ankles.

"Don't move."

I heard him unzip his pants. The sound was like a shot in the silence. I felt the head of his thick cock ...